


captured ghosts

by spinnerofyarns



Category: Babylon Berlin (TV)
Genre: Death, Family Issues, Gereon Has Never Coped With Anything In A Healthy Way, Mention of Suicide Attempt, Other, PTSD, mention of miscarriage, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinnerofyarns/pseuds/spinnerofyarns
Summary: Gereon is called home for his father's funeral and an emotional reunion with his siblings, and struggles with unpleasant childhood memories.





	captured ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> *extremely 2007 Internet Voice* first fic for this fandom please don't be mean
> 
> I mostly just wanted an excuse to write about Gereon's book-canon siblings. Especially Severin. 
> 
> Thanks to SmolSnekQueen for beta-reading!!!  
> —  
> New title from  
> “Welcome Home, Son” by Radical Face

Gereon’s entire morning seems to be building up to some terrible news. First he somehow manages to oversleep, ignoring his alarm clock in the depths of another nightmare about drowning. Then, he doesn’t have time to eat breakfast or even drink coffee before rushing off to work, and when he tries to light a cigarette, he fumbles and drops it into a sewer grate. He curses under his breath and lights another one. 

When he arrives at the precinct the telegram is sitting on his desk and Charlotte is waiting for him. 

“That arrived earlier,” she says as he hangs up his coat and picks up the envelope. “It’s from Cologne, it’s probably your father, or…”

Gereon clenches his jaw. He hasn’t been in touch with Helga for months, not since she and Moritz went back to Cologne. Most of the time he doesn’t regret letting her go.

He digs in his desk for a letter opener and slices the telegram open, reading it twice before the words actually register. 

“It - it’s from my sister,” he says. “My father died last night.” His voice sounds muffled to him, as though his ears are blocked or he’s underwater.

“I’m so sorry,” Charlotte says softly, reaching for Gereon’s hand. He looks down and realizes that his hands are shaking. He takes a deep breath and focuses on keeping them steady.

“I...I haven’t spoken to him in almost a year,” he admits. “Not since I told him I wasn’t coming home, and even before that, he didn’t exactly...well, I wasn’t his favorite son. That was always Anno.” Gereon swallows hard.

“But he was still your father,” Charlotte says gently. “Losing a parent is never easy.”

Gereon does not know how to respond to that, how to admit that he feels absolutely nothing. He looks at the telegram again. “The funeral is a week from now, I’ll need to ask the commissioner for a few days off.” He tosses it into his desk drawer and picks up a case file. “Anyway. There’s work to do.”

Charlotte frowns. “All right,” she says. “But if you need anything, if you want to talk - I’m here.”

Gereon manages to nod - all of his energy is focused on holding himself together, getting out of this situation without screaming - and Charlotte goes back to her desk, leaving him alone in his office.

He draws several deep shaky breaths before opening the file in his hands.

\---

That evening, for the first time in months, Gereon calls home. His sister answers on the second ring.

“Hello, Rath household.”

He hardly recognizes her voice, it’s been so long since they spoke. 

“Ursula?”

A pause. “Gereon?”

“I got your telegram. About Father.”

“Oh.” Another pause. “Will you come to the funeral?”

“Did you send Severin one too?”

“Of course. He’s still my brother. Our brother.”

Gereon bites his lip. This is not the time to point out that he is the only member of the family who made an effort to maintain contact with Severin after he left. “I’ve put in a request for a few days of leave for that weekend,” he says instead. “I’ll take the train up the day before the funeral.” He pauses. “Unless you need me to come earlier?”

“No, no,” Ursula rebuffs him. “I can handle it on my own. Father laid everything out quite clearly.”

_ Of course he did _ , Gereon thinks, because when has Engelbert Rath ever been anything but exacting and meticulous? All he says, however, is “Well, let me know if anything changes. You can reach me at the precinct, if I’m not there one of my assistants will relay the message.”

“All right. I’ll see you next week?”

“Next week,” Gereon confirms. “Good night.”

“Good night.” 

Gereon hangs up the phone and pours himself a healthy dose of cognac. He thinks about his medication, right there on his bedside table, but reconsiders. He’s been trying to limit his injections, taking it only before bed to keep the nightmares at bay. He can’t risk any problems at work, not now.

He thinks, vaguely, that he should probably be crying. That is generally the appropriate response to a parent’s death, but no tears come. 

That is not surprising - he does not recall crying much over his mother either. Back then he had explained it to himself as shock, another manifestation of his inability to cope with what he had seen in the war. Now he has no such excuse, but he finds that it does not really bother him anyway.

He takes a sip of his drink, lets it warm him from the inside, and then checks his watch and wonders off-handedly what Charlotte is doing. Probably out dancing and enjoying herself and not thinking about him at all, he decides. He wonders about her date - much younger than him, certainly, and healthier, happier, unmarked by war and guilt and regret. The kind of partner she deserves.

He’s well into this thought process and his second glass of cognac when he hears a knock at his door. 

Charlotte is standing there when he opens it, her eyes bright and her lipstick slightly smudged, clearly on her way home after a night out. 

“Are you all right?” he asks. “Did Edgar - did something happen?”

She shakes her head. “I just wanted to check on you,” she says. “Make sure you were all right after this morning.” She pauses. “Can I come in?”

Gereon moves aside to let her, a lump forming in his throat at the thought of Charlotte worrying about him.

“Have you eaten?” she asks. 

“Yes,” he lies. He’s not about to give her another reason to worry. “Can I offer you a drink?” 

“Oh, why not?” Charlotte says, sitting down in an armchair and crossing her legs. “Can’t have you drinking alone, that’s just depressing.” 

Gereon finds he cannot argue with that, so he pours Charlotte a glass of cognac and sits down opposite her. 

“How are you holding up?” she asks, and Gereon wants to cry, because that’s a question  _ he  _ should be asking  _ her _ \- she has been through so much more, so much worse than him. Every time he closes his eyes he sees her underwater, going cold and limp in his arms. 

“I’m fine, really,” he says after a moment. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Charlotte sips her drink and scrutinizes him. “Are you still on that medication?”

“Different dosage,” Gereon says. “Intravenously. And I’ve been trying to, er, limit it.”

“Is it helping?”

Gereon makes a face. “Mostly.” It’s better than the alternative - the endless flashbacks and panic attacks, jumping out of his skin at the slightest noise - but it makes him feel sluggish and tired, inefficient.

Charlotte frowns. “You never mentioned your sister before,” she says, taking another sip of her drink, “what is she like? I feel like I don’t know anything about your family.”

This is, of course, deliberate. Gereon has made a concerted effort to keep his Berlin life separate from Cologne, from his youth. But he sips his cognac and says, “I haven’t really spoken to her all that much since she got married, but we got along well when we were young. Much better than Anno and I.” He takes another sip and continues. “Her husband took over my job when I left Cologne. I don’t think my father ever forgave me for that decision.”

“Why?” Charlotte asks. 

“Ursula’s husband is that terrible combination, a total fool without even a good personality to make up for it. Dull as a sack of bricks in all senses of the phrase.” Gereon grimaces. “As if the whole funeral situation wasn’t bad enough, I’ll have to be nice to him.”

“Do you have any other siblings?” Charlotte asks, changing the subject, and Gereon wants to kick himself - she’s mentioned her brother-in-law before, and he makes Johann seem positively charming. 

“Just one more brother,” he says. “His name is Severin and he… ran away from home before the war, when he was eighteen and I was about fourteen. He lives in New York now. I don’t even know if he will come to the funeral.” He sips his drink thoughtfully. “I hope he will,” he finally says, and it is the first time he has admitted that to himself. “It will all be so much more bearable with him there.”

Charlotte smiles, looking at him over her drink. “Life of the party, is he?”

“If you could call our childhood a party,” Gereon says, somewhat bitterly. He finishes his drink and pours another, taking a moment to roll his shoulder. The gunshot wound healed just fine, but it still aches sometimes. Nothing terrible, just another note in the litany of chronic pain that echoes through his body.

Charlotte notices, of course. “Is it - does it hurt?” she asks softly.

“It’s livable,” Gereon answers.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“What about you?” Gereon asks, eager to stop this line of questioning before he gives Charlotte another reason to worry. “What about your arm?”

“It gets sore sometimes,” she shrugs. “When it’s cold. And I can’t write for as long as I used to, I need to take breaks. But it’s fine, really. I’m fine.”

_ Of course she’s fine _ , Gereon thinks.  _ Still bright and joyful and chirpy after nearly dying _ . Because that is how normal functional people handle things.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“It wasn’t your fault. You saved me.”

“After I put you into that situation in the first place.”

“Bruno did that,” Charlotte points out. “It wasn’t your fault, Gereon.” She finishes her drink and looks at the clock on the wall. “I should get home,” she says. “My sister will be worried.”

Gereon walks her to the door and helps her with her coat. Before leaving, Charlotte stands on her tiptoes and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she tells him. “Sleep well.”

Gereon, temporarily struck mute by this show of affection, only nods wordlessly.

\---

A few days later, Gereon takes the train to Cologne. He’s never been fond of trains, even before the shootout with Bruno, always prone to motion sickness that only got worse after the war. He folds himself into a seat by the window and tries to sleep for most of the journey, only waking for smoking breaks when they stop. He’s not sure if it’s the fresh air or the nicotine, but one of the two helps settle the nausea and dizziness. 

When he arrives he isn’t expecting anyone to meet him at the station, so he stops in his tracks when he hears someone call his name from behind him. He turns around to see Ursula, in a black dress and coat, walking purposefully towards him. She gives him a cold, perfunctory embrace, and says, “It’s good to see you again. I wish it was under better circumstances.” 

“It’s good to see you too,” Gereon says politely.

“Johann’s waiting outside, in his car,” Ursula continues. Gereon follows her there, where he loads his suitcase into the trunk and climbs into the back seat, bracing himself tor 20 more minutes of nausea. From what he remembers, Johann is an atrocious driver. 

“Hello, Gereon,” Johann says cheerily. “You look good. Enjoying your life in the capital?”

Gereon makes a noncommittal noise as they pull away from the curb.

“Severin should be arriving later tonight,” Ursula tells him, turning around from the front seat. “Do you want to go with us to meet him?”

“Yes,” Gereon says, a little too quickly. He hasn’t seen Severin in nearly two decades, and while his letters are always a joy they cannot compare to seeing him in person. 

Ursula smiles. “Great. We were planning to wait until he arrives to eat dinner, unless you’d like to eat now - you’ve had a long journey, you must be ravenous.”

“No, no, I’d rather wait,” Gereon replies. “Motion sickness, remember?”

“Of course,” Ursula responds, and Gereon knows she is remembering countless childhood trips delayed or ruined by him vomiting on a train platform. 

As they approach the house, Gereon feels as though he is shrinking, regressing back to the miserable wreck he was when he left. What little confidence he gained in Berlin retreats as he folds into himself, wanting to make himself small and unobtrusive again. He knows Engelbert Rath is dead, but he can’t help but feel sick with fear at the thought of entering that house again. 

_ Don’t be such a coward _ , he thinks.  _ You’re a grown man, why are you so nervous about going back to your childhood home? _

Johann stops the car in the drive, and Gereon gets his suitcase out of the trunk. 

“You’ll be in your old room,” Ursula says. “That’s - you’re all right with that, yes?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Ursula shrugs.  
“You almost... disappeared in there after the war,” she says. “You spent all day in there in the dark, I wasn’t sure - it might be full of bad memories.”

_ This whole house is full of bad memories _ , Gereon thinks but does not say. What he actually says is “It’s fine.”

His room is just as he left it when he went off to Berlin, albeit covered in a layer of dust. He closes the door behind him and fumbles for a moment for a nonexistent lock.

Gereon sits down on the bed and takes his medication out of his coat pocket. He places the kit on his nightstand and sits for a few moments, looking around the room. Then he gets up, crosses to the window, and flings open the heavy curtains to let in the last of the daylight.

After the war, in those first few agonizing months, he remembers spending days at a time curled up in bed, the curtains closed, the room dark as night. The outside world was too bright, too alive, too unbearably painful. Now, illuminated by the last rays of early-spring daylight, the room seems much less heavy and gloomy.

Gereon takes a deep breath, and immediately sneezes at the dust floating in the air. He curses under his breath and opens his suitcase to get a fresh shirt to change into. The train journey has left him sweaty and exhausted, and he needs to freshen up before seeing his brother.

In the bathroom, Gereon splashes water on his face, and studies himself in the mirror, grimacing at the dark bags under his eyes. At the very least, he thinks, he  _ looks _ appropriately exhausted for someone whose father has just died. 

Having freshened up and changed his shirt, Gereon slicks his hair back. He’s gotten out of the habit somewhat - the Berlin police department is less formal, and when he’s out on a case with Charlotte he doesn’t much care if his hair gets messy - but part of him shudders to think what his father would say if he saw him looking so sloppy. His scalp still twinges at the memory of his parents pulling his hair when he failed to comb it properly.

On the way back to his room, Gereon hesitates outside the door just to the left of his - Anno’s bedroom. After a moment, he pushes the door open and sees that the makeshift shrine his parents set up is still intact. On the dresser, a burned-out candle stub stands in front of a portrait of Anno on his wedding day, in his dress uniform. The uniform itself is laid out on the bed, along with all his medals, including the posthumous ones awarded after he went missing.

Gereon’s lip curls in disgust.  _ Perfect fucking Anno _ , he thinks.  _ Presumed dead and still being rewarded _ . If it had been him, he knows, his parents would not have set up such a shrine. They might not have even bothered with a funeral, just left his corpse to rot in the trenches where he fell.

His own dress uniform is still mothballed in a closet somewhere. For a moment he considers wearing it to the funeral, but decides against it. For starters, he isn’t even sure it would fit - he is still small and thin, but no longer the wisp of a thing he was a decade ago. 

Gereon looks for a few tense moments at the uniform on the bed, then reaches out and takes one of the medals. He cannot explain what possesses him to do it as he slips it into the pocket of his waistcoat. Spite, he presumes - a lingering desire to get one over on Anno.

Back in his room, Gereon unpacks his funeral suit, a drab black thing he has not worn since Stefan Jänicke’s funeral. 

(His fault, even if he hadn’t fired the shot.)

He takes a book out of his suitcase - a pulpy, pointless mystery he picked out blindly on his way to the station just for a distraction. He opens it, but struggles to focus for more than a few sentences. 

_ It’s this damned house _ , he thinks. The aura of misery about the place is so heavy that it forces everything else out of his head. 

He isn’t quite sure how much time has passed when Ursula knocks on his door. 

“Gereon? We’re going to meet Severin at the station, if you still want to come with us.”

Gereon hurriedly throws on his jacket and joins her in the corridor.

“I wonder if I’ll even recognize Severin,” Ursula says thoughtfully as they head out. “I hardly recognized you, and you’ve only been gone for a year or so. You look…different. Happier, I guess.”

Not for the first time, Gereon feels sick with guilt for disappearing into himself after the war. He missed so much while he was lost in his own head - Ursula’s wedding is a blur of pain and drugs and regret. 

“I’m not that much happier,” he says.

\---

Severin looks, to Gereon’s relief, much the same as when he left - older, yes, a little worn out by the passage of time, but still tall and wiry and angular, the same sharp features shared by all the Rath children.

He envelops Gereon in a tight hug, saying over his shoulder “I missed you so much.”

“What, you didn’t miss me?” Ursula teases. Gereon, his face pressed against Severin’s shoulder - he’s still the smallest of his siblings after all these years - tenses. Severin responds simply “Of course I did, but Gereon is the only one who bothered to write to me. I figured the rest of you had better things to worry about.” He releases Gereon and claps him on the shoulder. “Have you grown  _ at all _ since I left?”

“I have!” Gereon protests, defensively. “We can’t all be giants.”

Severin laughs as they walk out of the station, and Gereon tenses - their father has  _ died _ , such joy feels out of place, almost perverse. But it has been so long since he heard Severin’s laugh.

Ursula is less pleased. “Are you  _ drunk _ ?” she whispers, outraged. 

“Have been for the last three days,” Severin says cheerfully. “America’s gone dry, haven’t you heard? I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to be in international waters.” 

Ursula grimaces. “Well, whatever you do, don’t make a scene at the funeral. It’s bad enough that you’re back here - you know Father poisoned the whole town against you when you ran away? Told them to kill you if you ever came back.”

“Gereon mentioned,” Severin says. “But you sent me that telegram for a reason, didn’t you?”

Ursula purses her lips. “Estranged or not, you’re still… you’re still my brother. Our brother. But for the love of all that is holy, please don’t ruin the funeral. The entire police department will be there.”

Gereon’s stomach drops, sick with anxiety at the thought of seeing his former colleagues.

_ Their opinion doesn’t matter _ , he reminds himself.  _ You’ve got a perfectly good job with Homicide. You have no reason to ever come back here. _

It is not something he thinks often, but it is quite satisfying when it crosses his mind.

Back at the house - Gereon cannot think of it as home, not anymore - Gereon walks with Severin to his room, just across the hall from Gereon’s own.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Gereon says, pausing in the doorway, “let you freshen up.”

Severin smirks. “Please. You’re my brother and I haven’t talked to you properly in years. I think you can handle seeing me shirtless.”

Gereon has to smile at that as he follows Severin into his room. Severin flings his suitcase dramatically on the bed and opens it, pulling out a fresh shirt.

“So how have you been?” Severin asks, unbuttoning his cuffs. “I feel like you haven’t written in months, not since… well, not since Helga left. How’s Berlin treating you?”

“It’s all right,” Gereon allows, “better than here. I don’t really do much outside of work, I don’t have the time. But at least the cases aren’t boring, and my colleagues are mostly decent people.”

“How’s that assistant of yours, what’s her name, Charlotte?” Severin drops the old shirt to the floor, and Gereon reflexively picks it up and folds it, just to have something to do with his hands as Severin slides his arms into the sleeves of the fresh one.

“She’s a full-fledged detective now.” Gereon says. “We have a couple cases together and she is… unbelievable. She picks up things I never would have noticed without her.”

“Sounds like you love her” Severin teases, and Gereon shakes his head. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” he scoffs. “I’m sure she’s seeing someone, anyway. Possibly several someones.” Gereon perches on the edge of the bed. “Besides, she wouldn’t go for someone like me, not in a million years. Too old, too broken, all of that baggage…”

“You never know until you try,” Severin says. 

“What about you?” Gereon quickly changes the subject. “Are you still with Peter?” It had taken him a while to figure out how to address Severin’s love life - though, to be fair, Severin had only told Gereon about his sexuality three or four years after he left Cologne. But Severin seems truly happy now, in a way he never was as a teenager, finally able to live the life he wants.

“Peter’s lovely,” Severin says, combing his hair in front of the mirror. Gereon sees his brow furrow in the reflection. “You know, he offered to come here with me. But I - well, I couldn’t bring him to this house. Not now.”

“I understand,” Gereon says, then adds, “but I’d love to meet him, if, someday - if you ever come back.”

“You should come to New York instead,” Severin says, “bring your Charlotte, show her the world. Now let’s go, I am  _ starving _ .”

For a few moments Gereon allows himself to fantasize about taking Charlotte to New York, seeing the sights, taking her to all the hottest clubs - but he quickly reminds himself that it isn’t realistic, that it will probably never happen. Logistical and financial concerns aside, Charlotte has much better things to do than sail across the ocean with him.

“What, no wine?” Severin asks as they sit down around the dining room table. “Has this house gone dry too?” 

“We are in  _ mourning _ , Severin” Ursula hisses through clenched teeth.

“ _ You _ are,” Severin shoots back, “I’m just here to make sure our dear father is really truly dead and in the ground.”

“How long are you staying?” Johann cuts in. Ursula grimaces, and judging by the face Johann makes a second later, Gereon surmises that she must have stepped on his foot under the table. 

“About a month,” Severin answers, “maybe more. My return ticket is flexible, and I thought I’d try to track down some of my school friends, see what they’ve been up to…”

“Come to Berlin with me,” Gereon says suddenly, surprising even himself.

“Hm?”

“Come to Berlin with me. After the funeral. I’ve got a second bedroom, of sorts, you can meet my colleagues - and chances are your friends are there too, I remember how you all used to talk about getting out of Cologne.”

Severin half-smiles. “Sure,” he says, “why not? I probably shouldn’t linger here anyway, wouldn’t want to be underfoot. And what could be better than a month in the capital with my little brother?”

\---

The morning of the funeral is appropriately grey and gloomy. Gereon rises early, washes up, shaves, and gets dressed. He contemplates injecting a dose of morphine to just drift numbly through the whole experience, but decides against it - he doesn’t want his siblings to see him like that. His hands shake as he ties his necktie and he hardly recognizes himself in the mirror - he looks for all the world exactly the same as when he buried his mother nearly a decade ago. The same small, thin, terrified creature in somber black. 

_ This damned house _ , he thinks again.

Waiting outside with Severin, Gereon lights a cigarette and offers his brother the pack. Severin demurs, pulling his own out of a sleek silver case. As he lights up, Gereon smells an odd odor that after a few moments he identifies as cannabis. Severin just smiles and puts a finger to his lips at his shocked expression. 

They smoke in silence, waiting in the gloomy morning for Johann to pull the car around. When he does, Ursula in the front seat, Gereon and Severin clamber into the back, still silent. It doesn’t feel right to say anything.

The church is packed, which Gereon should have expected - Engelbert Rath was what one could call a pillar of the community, albeit a pillar that was hollow and rotted on the inside. As he and Severin enter, trailing behind Ursula and Johann, a murmur goes through the whole building. Gereon can only imagine what they’re saying - about Severin’s bold cocky stride, as though he hasn’t been disinherited and disgraced; about Gereon gallivanting off to Berlin, his drug use; about how neither of them will ever measure up to their father or to perfect blessed Anno - as he and Severin slide into the farthest corner of the front pew. Quickly, and so quietly that only Gereon notices - hypervigilant, especially here in his hometown - Severin pulls a flask out of his jacket and takes a swig of something. He passes it to Gereon, who cautiously sniffs it. Whiskey. The good stuff - Severin must have bought it when the boat docked in Liverpool. Gereon shakes his head. “We shouldn’t,” he whispers. 

“Suit yourself,” Severin shrugs, taking another swig before tucking the flask away.

The service itself is a blur of unpleasant muscle memory; Gereon feels as though his consciousness is floating slightly above his actual body as he recites the prayers, mumbles along to the hymns. He feels a faint twinge of guilt - he cannot remember how long it has been since his last confession, since he last set foot in a church at all.

Ursula closes with a eulogy. Traditionally, of course, that honor should have gone to one of the Rath sons, but Anno is presumed dead, Severin has cut ties with the family, and Gereon has effectively disinherited himself, so the responsibility falls squarely on Ursula’s head. 

“Our father,” she begins, then stops. “Our father was - “

“An absolute fucking bastard, is what he was,” Severin whispers, leaning over to catch Gereon’s ear.

Gereon nearly chokes trying to suppress a laugh, as he prays silently for the earth to open up and swallow the entire church.

But truly the worst moment of the entire ordeal is when the rest of the funeral-goers clear off and Gereon and his family proceed to the churchyard. 

He has forgotten - or perhaps simply refused to acknowledge - that “family” still includes Helga. It was easy enough to ignore her in the church, but not so easy when it’s just them standing across from each other over the grave.

He tries very hard not to think about the symbolism of the open grave between them.

“Gereon.” Helga says, and Gereon winces. It is the way she said his name when she was with Anno, that “Gereon, it’s for the best” tone. It still makes him sick to his stomach with anxiety and guilt.

“Helga,” he returns, hoping his tone is similarly cold even though his voice is shaking.

Luckily Severin chooses that moment to cut in. “Helga” he says solemnly, “you’re looking… healthy. Have you had any news of Anno?”

“The government pronounced him dead almost a year ago,” Helga says softly, and Gereon has to literally bite his tongue in order not to blurt out what he knows (and what Severin knows too, the only person besides Gereon who does). He hasn’t told anyone else, not certain what was real and what was drugs or fear or plain insanity.

Gereon manages to avoid Helga’s eyes for the remainder of the ceremony, as his father’s coffin is lowered into the earth. Afterwards, he and Severin practically run out of the churchyard for a quick smoke before heading home.

“So that was…” Severin starts, but cannot find the right words.

“Agonizing.” Gereon supplies. “Excruciating.” He takes a deep drag of his cigarette.

“That works. I never got what you saw in her, you know?” Severin turns his face up, blowing a stream of smoke into the grey sky.

“She was… she was always so bright, so happy,” Gereon says, looking straight ahead. “I’d never met anyone so cheerful before. But I guess this family sucked all the joy out of her.”

“Well, you definitely can’t bring your Charlotte anywhere near here, then,” Severin quips, and Gereon half-smiles.

“She’s not  _ mine _ ,” he protests weakly, “she’s - she’s not anyone’s. She’s independent. A free spirit.”

“She sounds,” Severin says, “like exactly the partner you need. Now come on, finish your cigarette, we have to get home for the funeral reception.”

Gereon makes a face. “I’d forgotten about that part.” 

“Well, look on the bright side,” Severin says, taking a drag on his cigarette. At Gereon’s confused look, he elaborates. “We’ve basically been disinherited. Only Ursula actually has to deal with anyone - we’re just guests. We can just make the rounds, grab a few bottles of something from the cellar, and hide out in one of our rooms and avoid everyone.”

At that moment, Ursula comes out of the churchyard. “Come on,” she says, “we’ve got to get home.”

Gereon is pretty sure that Severin sets a new record for quickest interactions with distant relatives at a funeral - they haven’t even been in the house twenty minutes before Severin absconds with a plate of food and two bottles of wine, raising an eyebrow at Gereon as if to say “Hurry up!”

Gereon lingers unwillingly a while longer, dragged into a conversation with Gertrude, his father’s older sister. She always liked Anno best, he remembers, and now she’s forced him into a conversation about Anno’s blessed memory. He nods along, repeating the false story he has been telling everyone since he came home - that he tried to save Anno, that he did everything he could but they were both captured nonetheless. It always shocks him that no one has ever bothered to check this, but it works yet again and Aunt Gertrude pats him on the shoulder and lets him go. He fills up a plate with food and grabs a bottle of wine - Riesling, his mother’s favorite, he remembers with a brief flash of nausea - before setting off to find his brother.

Severin is in Gereon’s room, already sprawled out on his bed.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asks languidly. Gereon shakes his head. “I always liked your room better than mine.”

“It’s not that much better,” Gereon argues.

“The light’s better,” Severin nods in the direction of the window. “I mean, Anno obviously had the nicest room, but I always liked yours more than mine cause yours faces south, you get more sunlight.”

Gereon sits down on the bed beside Severin. “Not that I got much chance to enjoy it,” he gestures at the heavy curtains.

“At least now you can.”

“What do you mean?”

“Father’s gone. His reign of terror is over, we can do whatever we want now,” Severin nudges him. “Go on, let the light in.”

Gereon crosses the room and opens the curtains, flooding the room with weak greyish light. “That wasn’t very effective.” 

“Goddamn funeral weather,” Severin sighs. Gereon sits back down on the bed.

“Budge over,” he says, stretching his legs out and gently nudging Severin. “I’m tiny but not that tiny, make some room.” He feels almost like a child again, sitting with Severin after yet another explosive fight over dinner. Only now they have food, and wine, and some semblance of control over their situations. 

Severin sits up and reaches for one of the bottles of wine, pulling a corkscrew out of his pocket. At Gereon’s raised eyebrow, he says “I’m a part-time bartender in a speakeasy, this is one of the more  _ normal  _ things in my pockets.”

“I thought you were a librarian?” Gereon queries as Severin uncorks the bottle. 

“That’s my day job,” Severin explains, “but one of my friends runs a nice little bar down the street from my building and since I’m there almost every night anyway, I might as well earn some money from it.” He passes the open bottle to Gereon, uncorking another for himself. “Drink up.”

“You didn’t grab any wine glasses?”

“Why, so you have something to throw in a drunken rage like dear old Dad?” Severin quips.

“No,” Gereon says, “to  _ drink from _ .”

“Wine glasses, Gereon, are for people who had good childhoods. We can cut out the middleman and drink straight from the bottle. Cheers,” he adds in English, tapping the neck of his bottle against Gereon’s. 

They both take generous swigs of wine, light and sweet and fruity on Gereon’s tongue. It’s a contrast to the house; it feels just as wrong as the sunlight streaming in through the window. This is not a house that welcomes anything light, Gereon thinks. It is a heavy house that drags down anyone unfortunate enough to get caught in its gravity.

“Hey,” Severin says, “what’s - what happened here?” 

Gereon leans over to look where Severin is pointing, at the faint blurry edges of what was once a pool of blood on the floor. 

“Oh,” he says softly. He had nearly forgotten his suicide attempt, the hospitalization, the aftermath. “I - I tried to ... after you left, I tried to take my own life.”

“Gereon,” Severin interjects softly, but Gereon barrels on. 

“I know, it’s a sin, believe me, our parents never let me forget that. I cut my wrists, but I… I messed up. I cut the wrong way. Ursula found me in here, and I ended up in the hospital.” He pauses to catch his breath. “When I got out - I said it was an accident, that I broke a window or a mirror or something, I don’t even remember anymore, but since Father was… who he was, they had no problem releasing me - when I got out, Father took the door to my room off its hinges, dragged me to church and forced me to confess, made me pray for forgiveness for dishonoring God and the family -” He breaks off, feeling sick, and Severin reaches for his hand.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” he asks. “In all your letters, you never…”

Gereon can’t look him in the eye as he answers. “I pushed it out of my memory. The guilt, the shame… I just couldn’t bear to think about it. And by the time I started writing to you, so many other things had happened. It wasn’t important.”

“I’m sorry,” Severin says gently.

“Let’s not talk about it.” 

Severin squeezes his shoulder. “All right. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gereon replies, taking another drink of wine. 

Severin looks at him for a few more moments. “It’s this fucking house.” he declares. “I hate it. I crossed the threshold and immediately felt like I was sneaking in, like Father would be waiting in the sitting room to yell at me.”

Gereon nods. “Last night before you arrived, I was in here trying to read and I kept jerking at the slightest noise, I thought one of them was going to barge in and yell at me for lazing around.”

Severin clinks their wine bottles together again. “To our charming, happy childhood.” he says acerbically, and they both drink again.

Severin nudges Gereon. “Eat something,” he urges, pushing the food towards him. “You look starved half to death.”

“I’m fine,” Gereon protests, picking up a roll and nibbling at it half-heartedly. He hasn’t had much of an appetite in a while, not since Helga left.

Severin frowns again, and Gereon scrambles to find a new, less unpleasant subject.

“You mentioned a bar?” he asks. “How does that work, if alcohol is illegal?”

“Well,” Severin says, stretching languidly, “I don’t know if I should be saying any of this to a  _ cop… _ ”

“Oh, fuck off.” Gereon scoffs through a mouthful of bread. “I’m not Vice anymore. Besides, I’m pretty sure my jurisdiction doesn’t extend to New York.”

Severin snorts. “Remember when we were kids and Father scared us out of running away by saying he knew cops all around the world? I spent the first year or so after I got out avoiding the police. My friends thought I was a murderer on the run or something.”

“I’m sure you did very little to dispel that notion,” Gereon says snarkily, sipping his wine.

“Be that as it may,” Severin allows, taking a swig of wine, “he’s dead now, and I work in a secret hidden bar in my friend’s basement. Officially it’s something called a ‘Passover kitchen’ - her family’s Jewish and apparently there’s a holiday that requires a whole separate kitchen? Anyway, they’ve got basically a full apartment in their basement, and Zippy’s gone and made it into a speakeasy. Her parents and grandparents life a few floors up and they go to bed early, so they have no idea what she’s up to in the basement every night.” Severin pauses to take a drink of his wine. “You’d like her,” he adds, scrutinizing Gereon, “she’s the only person I’ve met who could match your dancing skills. You still go dancing sometimes, right?”

“Yes,” Gereon says, “but tell me about the bar, how does it work?”

“There’s an outside entrance to the basement.” Severin explains. “Like, if the sidewalk is here,” he holds his left hand flat in the air, “the door is down here,” he positions his right hand about 20 centimeters lower, “and there’s a set of stairs, you go down them and knock on the door and there’s a new password every week. And once you’re inside, there’s wine and cocktails and music and lights and it’s just  _ lovely _ .”

“Where does she get the alcohol?” Gereon asks, worried. “I’ve heard about people getting poisoned with bad alcohol, please tell me you’re not drinking something homebrewed.”

Severin snorts. “Gereon. Please. It wounds me that you think I would stoop so low.”

“You’re drinking wine straight from the bottle,” Gereon points out, “and if you keep gesticulating like that you’re going to spill it all over the bed, and then I’ll have to kill you.”

Severin sets the bottle on the floor and continues his story. “Anyway. Zippy’s got cousins up in Canada, they smuggle stuff to her across the border. She and her brother drive up to Ontario about once a month to bring back a full car of the stuff. They dress like religious Jews and label the boxes ‘Shabbos wine’, so no one looks at it twice. Zippy hates it, though, cause she has to wear a wig and a long skirt.” He pauses for a drink. “You know… most of the time she looks uncannily like you, just with longer hair. Same cheekbones and eyes and everything, if I didn’t know better I’d think she was your twin separated at birth. She doesn’t have those dark circles under her eyes, though.” He takes another drink. “And on top of that, her grandfather taught her how to make moonshine from sugar beets. It’s a Russian recipe, I think? Or maybe Belarussian, I’m not sure. He explained it to me, but English isn’t his first or even second language, and Yiddish is fairly similar to German but not quite identical, so some words fall through.” He half-smiles. “Zippy’s family were the first people I met in New York who were nice to me. Her father got me that library job, helped me find an apartment - I lived with them for about six months, in their guest room - and he helped me get my paperwork sorted. He’s a lawyer, without his help I would have been totally lost.”

Gereon feels an odd sort of pit in his stomach at the thought of Severin figuring out his way around a strange city, being taken in by this family. He thinks for a moment of Councillor Benda’s family, and the pit in his stomach morphs into nauseating guilt. He takes a swig of wine to cover it.

They spend a few minutes drinking and eating in silence. Gereon stretches out on the bed and delights in the feeling of breaking every rule his parents set - he’s in bed, during the day, fully dressed, in his shoes, with food and wine.

“Mother and father would be rolling in their graves if they could see us,” Severin comments, and Gereon smiles.

“What other rules can we break?” he asks. “I mean, you’re right. They’re gone. We can do whatever we want.”

“Oh!” Severin sits up suddenly, then hiccups. “Oof. Too fast. Sorry. Anyway, I remember you wrote to me about a creepy shrine in Anno’s room? Is that still there?”

Gereon nods, and Severin grins.

“Let’s break in,” he suggests, “steal something or break something or just ruin all their hard work. He’s not actually dead, anyway.” He scrambles up off the bed, nearly stepping on and spilling his wine, and Gereon follows, just like he did as a child.

Severin doesn’t even hesitate outside the door, just flings it open and barges in. Gereon follows close behind him.

“God,” Severin says disgusted, looking around the room, “it’s a fucking mausoleum.”

Gereon thinks of the stolen medal in the pocket of his waistcoat from the previous night, as Severin prods at the medals still on Anno’s uniform.

“ _ Prick _ ” Severin sneers, picking up the wedding portrait. “Thank god he ‘died’ before he got most of those, otherwise he’d be an unbearable jangling dick.”

“At least people would hear him coming,” Gereon jokes, taking a swig of wine. Severin snorts.

“We always heard him coming anyway,” he points out. “He never had to hide or sneak around, remember how he’d always stomp?”

“The walk of a true leader” Gereon says mockingly, deepening his voice to mimic their father.

Severin laughs again, and this time Gereon joins in, light and floaty from the full bottle of wine coursing through his veins.

Severin carefully takes the wedding portrait of Anno out of its frame.

“What are you doing?” Gereon asks, watching him.

“I’m going to burn this,” Severin says, “you got a light?”

Gereon fishes around his inside pocket for his lighter and his fingers bump against a vial of morphine. It must be from Stefan’s funeral - he barely remembers that day, drugged into oblivion to keep himself together. 

He fishes the lighter out and passes it to Severin, who looks around for a convenient ashtray, finally settling on the metal dish holding the burnt-out candle stub. He clicks the lighter, and flames engulf the photograph.

As they watch it burn, Severin examines the lighter. “Hang on,” he says, “this is Anno’s, isn’t it? It’s the one Helga gave him for Christmas when they were dating. Look, it’s got his name on it and everything! When did you pilfer this?”

Gereon shrugs. “Stuff, um, finds its way into my possession sometimes.” He thinks of the stash of church candles still hidden at the back of his wardrobe, stolen one by one from Sunday services and midnight masses throughout his childhood. And it’s a lie - he knows exactly when and how that lighter came into his possession, during the party celebrating Anno’s engagement to Helga - after he’d claimed to have a stomachache and ducked out of dinner early to supposedly rest in his room. He’d gone instead to Anno’s room, intent on wreaking some minor destruction to get back at his brother.

Anno hadn’t even noticed the lighter was gone.

Severin tosses it back to Gereon, who tucks it into his pocket. 

“What else can we do?” Severin asks, surveying the room

“Father’s study.” Gereon says immediately. It has always been a strictly guarded place, a forbidden inner sanctum that none but the Perfect Golden Child could enter. Gereon longs to go in, to sit at his father’s desk and drink his brandy and show him how far “the wrong son” has come.

“Oh,  _ brilliant _ ,” Severin says fervently. He checks his watch. “Jesus, it’s already six, when did that happen?”

Gereon shrugs. “Come on,” he says, leading the way down the corridor.

The door of their father’s study, on the first floor of the house, is locked. Severin tests the knob and curses. “Damn. Do you know where - “ He doesn’t even finish his sentence before Gereon pulls his lockpicks out of his pocket and kneels in front of the door.

“You came prepared,” Severin says, surprised. 

“Remember what father used to say?” Geren asks, still working the lock.

“The bold may gain glory but the prepared survive,” Severin recites.

“Exactly. Now, just shut up for a minute and...a-ha!” The lock clicks open and Gereon carefully removes the lockpicks before turning the doorknob.

“My brother the criminal,” Severin jokes as he follows Gereon into the study.

It is just as dark and imposing as Gereon remembers, oak paneling and bookshelves packed with ornate leather-bound tomes. Gereon lights the lamps on the desk as Severin fumbles for the switch on the one in the corner.

With the lamps on, the study is a much cozier place. Severin flings himself into the imposing carved chair and puts his feet up on the desk. “Gereon,” he says, and his voice sounds so like Engelbert Rath that Gereon flinches. Severin notices, and finishes the sentence in his normal voice. “Grab the brandy and come over here, would you? I want to see if Dad still kept blackmail notes on his colleagues.”

Gereon picks up the crystal decanter of (probably appallingly expensive) brandy and brings it over to the desk. He sets it down, and tries one of the drawers.

“Locked?” Severin asks, picking up the decanter. Gereon nods, and takes out the lockpicks again.

“You were always better at that than I was,” Severin says, watching him.

“More practice,” Gereon says. “You’d be surprised how often it comes up in police work. We can’t always just bust down the door, you know.”

Severin chuckles as the lock clicks open. Gereon pulls the drawer open to reveal only a few pens and a spare bottle of ink.

“Ooh, a Montblanc” Severin says over his shoulder, and plucks a pen out of the drawer. He uncaps it and makes a face. “Father always liked wide nibs. Ah well, I’m sure my friend can grind it down to something usable.” Gereon picks up another pen, sleek black with silver trim. He remembers this pen - he received quite a few whacks across the knuckles with it, when his father couldn’t be bothered to reach for a ruler. He pockets it, planning to tuck it away somewhere with Anno’s medal, a small collection of unpleasant mementos.

Severin passes him the decanter of brandy, and Gereon takes a sip, savoring the burn as it makes its way down his throat. He takes another swig before passing it back and opening the next drawer.

The drawer contains a stack of file folders, neatly labeled with the names of Engelbert Rath’s colleagues and neighbors. Severin hefts them onto the desk and leafs through them. “Damn,” he says, “dear old Dad was  _ thorough _ .”

Gereon looks over his shoulder. Each file is a wealth of information on its subject - medical issues, embarrassing or incriminating family connections, humiliating photographs - the works. It reminds him of Bruno, collecting secrets and gossip about everyone on the force. His stomach lurches as he remembers the cruel, patronizing way Bruno had smiled tucking the ampoule of morphine into Gereon’s pocket.  _ One call to the right people, _ that smile had said,  _ and I could destroy you. _

He picks up the decanter and takes another swig to cover up his nausea as he bends to open the bottom drawer.

The bottom drawer contains more files, but when Gereon pushes them aside he finds two much more interesting things - another bottle of brandy, unopened, and a handgun. He places the bottle on the desk and picks up the gun, turning it over in his hands. It’s not the Mauser that he remembers his father using at work, but something smaller, lighter. Ater a moment, he places it as a Beretta, which only raises more questions - what on earth was his father doing with an Italian revolver?

“Ha!” Severin exclaims from above him, and Gereon jerks a little in surprise. “I always knew Klaus Reichert was a homo!”

“Detective Inspector Reichert’s son?” Gereon asks. “How did you - actually, never mind,” he stops himself. “I’m pretty sure Klaus is some Nazi big shot now, if that got out…” He trails off as Severin grins.

“Exactly. Oh, what have you got there?” He reaches for the Beretta.

“I found it in the bottom drawer,” Gereon says as Severin examines the gun.

“What on earth was Dad doing with this? It’s definitely not standard police issue,” Severin wonders, turning the gun over in his hands. “Did he steal it off a suspect or something?” 

“Probably,” Gereon says, the pit of dread in his stomach deepening as he remembers Bruno and another gun stolen off a suspect. After all these years, he hadn’t expected that a new facet of his father’s awfulness would surprise him, but this feels oddly personal.

Severin cocks the gun and fires a shot into the fireplace. The noise makes Gereon tense, clenching his jaw.

“Shit,” Severin curses, setting the gun down on the desk. “Shit, Gereon, I’m sorry, I didn’t think - are you all right?”

Gereon nods, reaching for the gun. “How does it handle?” 

“Great, Father was clearly very diligent about maintenance.” Severin says as Gereon lines up the shot. He fires, and another bullet lands in the fireplace, chipping one of the bricks.

“Nice shot,” Severin says appreciatively. “Hey, do you want to have a go at the empty wine bottles? It always looked fun when Anno did it.”

Gereon shakes his head. “It’s not actually that fun” He hates the sound of shattering glass, much prefers practicing on the paper targets at the precinct.

Severin takes another swig of brandy just as Ursula opens the door, causing him to cough and splutter.

“What are you doing in here?” Ursula asks suspiciously. “I heard gunshots.”

“Enjoying our inheritance,” Gereon answers innocently, while Severin struggles to catch his breath, “and reminiscing about Father. Want a drink?”

Ursula crosses the room and grabs one of the heavy crystal glasses that match the decanter. “Might as well,” she says, extending it towards Gereon, who pours her a generous dose of brandy.

“Do we actually know who’s inheriting all of this?” she asks, sitting down on the floor. Gereon and Severin join her, leaning back against the heavy oak desk.

“Moritz, I guess,” Gereon says with a grimace.

“How do you figure?” Ursula asks at the same time as Severin says “Who?”

“Anno’s son,” Ursula explains. “The little brat who was with Helga at the church.”

“Anyway,” Gereon continues, “Father definitely cut Severin out of the will, I assume he’s cut me out too, and… the law won’t let women inherit.”

“The law,” Ursula interjects, “is  _ horse shit _ .”

Gereon smiles. It’s exactly the sort of thing she would have said when they were children, and it comforts him to know that Johann hasn’t yet sucked all the life out of her. “It is,” he agrees, “but it’s the law. So everything would have gone to Anno, but he’s… presumed dead, which means Moritz is next in line. Unless, of course, you hurry up and produce a son. Then they’d probably split it.”

Ursula grimaces at that and takes a swig of her drink. “We’ve been trying,” she says quietly. “No luck yet. We came close, twice, but I... lost the baby.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, then Gereon squeezes her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he says. Ursula sniffles.

“I mean, it can’t be me, right?” she says. “By the time Mama was my age, she’d already had all three of you. But Johann refuses to even consider that it could be him. Not that I blame him, I mean - no man would want to admit that.” She downs the last of her brandy and reaches for the decanter. “Anyway, doesn’t look like I’ll be producing any heirs anytime soon, so you two had better get on it. I can’t stand the thought of goddamn Moritz carrying on the Rath family name.”

“Well, I’m out too,” Severin announces, “I’ve already dumped the name. I took Peter’s when we moved in together, so now I’m… Severin Robinson. At least I get to keep using all my monogrammed things.”

Gereon snorts. “Obviously your primary concern.”

“Hey, those handkerchiefs are nice!” Severin retorts. “If you’re going to be an asshole, no more brandy for you!” He grabs for the decanter, and Gereon leans just out of his reach.

“Boys, boys!” Ursula cuts in, “Don’t spill it, you’ll ruin the rug! And waste some damn fine brandy too.”

Severin laughs. “I don’t much care about ruining the rug,” he says, “since Moritz, whoever he is, is getting all of this anyway. But you have a point about the brandy.”

“Of course I do.” Ursula says smugly. “Top me up?”

Gereon refills her glass. “You’re about three drinks behind,” he says, “drink up.”

“Y’know,” Severin says, “Father used to throw these glasses at me. Never actually  _ hit _ me - his aim wasn’t great, especially when he’d had a few, and I got very good at dodging - but sometimes it would shatter against the wall and I’d get hit with shrapnel. I’ve still got a few scars, look,” he holds up his left hand. “I think they’re from the time he caught me sneaking in from a night out with Rudi.”

Gereon remembers that night all too well, and knows that the cuts on Severin’s hand were the mildest of his injuries. But all he says is, “Father did that to me too. It got worse after you left. He was so angry. He kept trying to make me tell him where you’d gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Severin says quietly, guiltily. Gereon shrugs.

“I never told him,” he says. “Even after I found you, I never cracked.” He takes a gulp of brandy before passing the decanter to Severin. “It was good practice,” he adds. “Came in surprisingly useful in my adult life.”

“Really?” Ursula asks, raising her eyebrows. “Is Berlin that dangerous, that you find yourself being tortured for information in the course of your job?”

“Well,” Gereon says, rubbing his shoulder, “it’s the first place I’ve been  _ shot _ in the line of duty. Twice, I might add, and by my own former colleague.”

“Christ,” Ursula breathes. “Helga never mentioned - well, of course she never mentioned. Gereon, you need to be more careful!”

“I’m trying!” Gereon protests. “I just have a knack for getting into bad situations, apparently.”

“Come home,” Ursula urges. “You could easily be the head of homicide here, and your colleagues wouldn’t be shooting at you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Gereon says dryly. “I mean, god only knows what Father has told them about me.”

“Come to New York, then.” Severin offers. “The library’s always hiring, or if you insist on being a detective Zippy’s brother works for the city prosecutor, he could find you something. I’m serious,” he adds, “and bring Charlotte too. I don’t know what it looks like from the inside but from what I’m hearing I don’t think this whole situation with the Nazis is going anywhere good. Both of you,” he gestures to Gereon and Ursula, “should start thinking about getting out. But especially you, Gereon, I know you well enough to know that you’re going to get into some stupid fight and burn your whole career to the ground.” He takes a deep swig of brandy as an uncomfortable silence settles over the room.

Gereon once again considers the possibility of running away to New York, taking Charlotte with him. Her sister too - he has a feeling Charlotte wouldn’t leave without Toni.

“I can’t believe Dad used to  _ throw things _ at you.” Ursula says suddenly. “That’s… that’s horrible.”

“Of course you didn’t know,” Severin says flatly, “Father always made sure we stayed quiet. I haven’t even told Peter about it, at least not the full truth. He’s seen the scars but I always change the subject when he asks.” He takes another swig of brandy and looks at Gereon. “What about you?”

Gereon shakes his head. “No one. Not even Helga. I mean, how was I supposed to tell her about the role Anno played in it? ‘Oh, yeah this scar on my arm is from when your former husband heated a metal ruler over a candle and pressed it against my skin to see how long I could tolerate it without crying’?”

Ursula winces. “He used to pinch me,” she offers. “When I was little. Couldn’t stand the fact that Mama paid more attention to me than to him. He’d pinch my arm or leg hard enough to bruise, and when I cried out, he’d act all innocent -”

“And dump the blame on one of us,” Gereon finishes. “I remember.” In truth, he hadn’t remembered until Ursula brought it up. He vividly remembers Anno’s cruelty to him and Severin, of course, a miniature version of their father, but he always thought that Ursula - the baby, and the only girl - had been spared the worst of it.

“To Anno fucking Rath.” Severin says bitterly, raising the decanter in a toast. “An asshole in life, an asshole in presumed death.”

Ursula downs her drink as Severin passes the decanter to Gereon. He swigs, then refills Ursula’s glass.

“Do Peter or Zippy or her family ever suspect anything?” Gereon asks. “Like, about your childhood and your family, I mean.” He’s thinking about Benda again, and his wife, the way they’d both looked at him in that church before inviting him over, like they  _ knew _ . The way Benda always spoke to him, so quiet and calm and patient, about as far from Engelbert Rath as he could get.

“Zippy and her mother both have this one face they make when I say something worrying,” Severin says thoughtfully, “it fucking hurts to look at. But, I mean - they know I ran away from home, they shouldn’t be so surprised to find out that home was… less than ideal.” He pauses. “What about you? Does Charlotte know anything?”

Gereon shakes his head. “Not Charlotte,” he explains, “but the former commissioner, the one who was... killed last year - I don’t know how much he actually figured out, but he always looked out for me in a way no one else did.” He takes another sip of brandy before passing the decanter back to Severin. “I haven’t seen his family since… since the funeral. I think they moved away out. Out of Berlin.” He doesn’t blame them - he would have done the same in their position. He’d briefly considered it - running away to Munich or Stuttgart or anywhere - but decided against it; running from his problems was part of what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

“I hate this fucking house.” Severin says caustically. “Moritz can have it. I never want to set foot in here again.” He takes a swig of brandy. “My first apartment in New York, after I moved out of Zippy’s, was a fucking basement and it was still much more pleasant than this place.”

“Being here just makes me want to… I don’t know. Break things. Throw something. Scream and scream and never stop.” Gereon blurts out.

Severin reaches up to the surface of the desk behind him and fumbles around for a moment before handing Gereon a heavy crystal paperweight. “Go ahead,” he says.

Gereon stands up - wobblier than he expected - and winds up, pushing through the ache in his shoulder. He pitches the paperweight straight into the fireplace, where it shatters into tiny shards.

“Whoo! Full marks, excellent throw!” Severin cheers, and Gereon finds himself stifling a laugh.

“What can I say?” he quips. “Maybe I am my father’s son after all.”

Severin laughs. “If old Engelbert could see us now,”

“He’s probably spinning in his grave,” Ursula says into her drink. “Y’know,” she adds, “I went against his wishes inviting you here, Severin. He very specifically didn’t want you at his funeral.”

“Well,” Severin declares, “I simply had to make sure the old sod was actually dead. What was it that killed him, again?”

“Heart failure,” Ursula answers.

“Huh. I wasn’t aware he even had a heart,” Gereon says bitterly. Severin laughs.

“He wasn’t a total monster,” Ursula protests. “He could be kind, sometimes.”

“Not to us,” Severin says darkly.

“Remember what he said when I came home from the front?” Gereon asks. “About the wrong son coming back?”

“He  _ didn’t _ .” Severin says, his eyes wide.

“Oh, he very much did,” Gereon replies.

“Is there another paperweight up there?” Severin asks. Gereon checks the desk and shakes his head.

“Here,” Ursula says, handing Severin her empty glass. “Channel our father’s spirit.”

Severin stands up, steadying himself on the desk, and flings the glass at the portrait over the mantelpiece, of their parents and young Anno. The glass hits right in the middle of Anno’s face, and Severin whoops in delight.

“Take  _ that _ , you fucker!” he yells. Gereon laughs.

“Shit,” Ursula says, looking at the clock on the wall. “It’s nearly eleven. Gereon, what time does your train leave tomorrow?”

“I think the earliest one is around one in the afternoon.”

“I think I  _ will _ go to Berlin with you,” Severin says, sitting back down. Gereon joins him and Ursula on the floor. “If you’re still open to that.”

“Of course,” Gereon says. “I might need to replace the sheets in the guest room, but there’s a bed for you and everything. And plenty of alcohol,” he adds, half-jokingly.

“Well,” Ursula says, “I’m going to bed.” She starts to stand up and Gereon hops up and extends a hand to help her. “Thank you. If you two want to keep horsing around, take it out onto the grounds, would you? I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night,” Gereon says, sitting back down. 

“Sleep well,” Severin adds.

\---

The next morning Gereon is woken by Severin barging into his room and sprawling across the bed. “Good morning, Gereon!” he chirps, annoyingly chipper. Gereon cracks one eye open.

“Fuck off,” he groans. “How are you not hungover?”

“I work in a speakeasy, Gereon, my liver is virtually invincible. Now come on, it’s nearly ten, you need to get up!”

Gereon groans again and maneuvers out of bed, every movement sending a fresh wave of pain and nausea through him.

He stumbles blearily into the bathroom and is relieved to find a small brown bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet. Tapping three pills out onto his palm, he swallows them with a gulp of water from the tap. He draws a bath, and sits for a few minutes in the water, waiting for the painkillers to kick in before scrubbing at his skin until it feels red and raw and clean. His hangover is only partly from the alcohol - part of it is sickening guilt at the things he said last night, how much he revealed. Even if the only people who heard were his siblings, it still makes him nauseous.

After a bath, he feels much closer to human. A cup of strong black coffee and some buttered toast help even more. After breakfast, he and Severin head up to their rooms to pack, and Johann and Ursula drive them to the station to catch their train to Berlin. 

She hugs them both on the platform. Gereon doesn’t hear what she says to Severin, but when she hugs him, she whispers “Call me when you get home safe?”

“Of course,” he says. “Are you staying at the house?” She nods.

“I...need a break from Johann,” she confesses.

Gereon smiles.

“Be careful,” Ursula pleads, hugging him again.

“I will,” Gereon promises, making a mental note to start calling home more often.

The train ride is uneventful - Gereon is disappointed, though not surprised, to learn that being hungover makes his motion sickness even worse - and they arrive in Berlin in the early evening. As they are walking out of the station, Gereon hears someone call his name and sees Charlotte waving at him, smiling. He tugs Severin’s sleeve to get him to turn around, and they make their way towards Charlotte, who greets Gereon by throwing her arms around his neck.

“It’s so good to see you!” she exclaims before releasing him. “And who’s this?” she asks, looking at Severin.

“My brother,” Gereon explains, “Severin. He’s going to be staying with me for a couple weeks. Severin, this is my colleague, Charlotte Ritter.”

Severin shakes Charlotte’s hand. “So nice to meet you,” he says, smiling. “My brother has told me so much about you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Charlotte replies, and Gereon winces. “Gereon’s so secretive about his family, until we got the telegram about your father I thought he might just have been created in a laboratory.”

Severin chuckles. “You didn’t tell me about her sense of humor,” he says.

Charlotte smiles. “Do you want to get a cab, or should we walk?” she asks. “The weather’s lovely, and no offence, Gereon, but you look like you could do with some fresh air.”

“Let’s walk,” Gereon says. He’d agree to anything to extend his time with Charlotte before she dashes off to enjoy the rest of her evening.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm standuptragicomedy on Tumblr come scream with me about this show.


End file.
